Watercolour of a Rainy Night
by Lisoata
Summary: It was late at night, and it was raining.


Author's Note: I think I might end up shot for this one. It's kind of fluff, a little bit fluffy in a strange way. And a little bit out of character again, because in character all Light and L do is snipe at each other under five layers of faux-politeness and pretend comments on the case. But it's stated that they spent MASSES AND MASSES of time together, so I like to think they could have had a few moments like this.

And when they start talking about recursion, etc, this is token L-and-Light-were-talking-about-something-that's-like-_totally_-clever-and-stuff. It's not important.

* * *

Watercolour of a Rainy Night

It was late at night, and it was raining.

The rain was heavy and had a violent intent - it pounded on the rooftops, the windowsills, the street in a way that seemed quite deliberate, taking out its frustration on the blameless earth. Buildings huddled together, dark and blurred, definition and edges obscured by the rain - the street was a backdrop, unobtrusive and not painted with any intent to catch the eye. It ceded control to the centre.

The street was deserted except for two people who were talking: quietly, but animately, just loud enough to be heard over the drumming rainfall and standing quite close together - muscles just a little tense, eyes just a little sharp, minds in a strange liminal state of half-paranoia half-panic half-calm.

It was a picturesque, frozen moment, painted in watercolour and worked over in ink, a study in contrasts, clashes, collision. His white T-shirt was soaked through, clinging to his skin, sharp angles and dullprominentdark eyes. _He_ was dressed in rich, deep black, his auburn hair in damp strands falling artfully around his face. _His_ sharpness was all in his eyes, deep brown compositions with hawk-like lines and burning centres.

They were walking, talking, caught in the moment.

They didn't seem to care about the rain.

* * *

"I understand what you're saying Light, I just don't agree with you."

"Oh, that's as nonsensical as anything I've heard you say. I'm making a logical propostion, one step follows the other. If you understand the logic, surely you have to agree with me."

"I agree with your reasoning insofar as it is reasoning, however more than one section in the algorithm is defined recursively and your belief that the recursion will bottom out for every possible value you input is where you're opinionated."

"You don't think so? What's the reasoning behind this? Would I be overestimating your personality again in thinking this isn't just a fit of antagonistic caprice?"

"Now, now, there's no need to get so heated. We can very easily verify our opinions, it's trivial. And it's raining, no one wants to argue in the rain. Let's move on to a different topic. Light? ...Light?"

"...I'm sorry. It seems I was temporarily inconvenienced by an awful thing called perspective."

"Oh, really? How did that go for you?"

"It was very refreshing, thank you."

_(drip drip drip drip drip drip drop)_

"Did you come to any stunning realisations in your ten second trip to a more enlightened world view?"

"Yes. I realised that you aren't real."

"Is that so?"

"Mmm."

"I can think of three ways you can have come to this conclusion..."

"Only three? You insult me."

"...three generalized ways. So tell me: is this a philosophical, narcissistic or sentimental decision?"

"Iterate them for me and I'll tell you."

"Philosophical in the well-worn 'The world doesn't exist and therefore you don't either.'; narcissistic in the 'No one could possibly be anywhere near as clever as me, therefore you don't exist.' or sentimental in 'You're such a stimulating conversationalist that it can't really be true.'"

"It's none of those. It's just a feeling, actually. I feel like you aren't actually real. You died yesterday. Or you're asleep, or something."

"Are you trying to be profound?"

"Not really, no. Does a mention of your death raise the chances of me being Kira?"

"I'll grant you an exception just this once."

"I'm eternally indebted to you for your kindness."

"Excellent. When can I start abusing that debt?"

"You do understand, don't you?"

"Of course I do. I feel the same way about you. I always will."

* * *

It was late at night, and it was raining.

The rain pounded on the buildings, the windowsills, the street and two people walked past, talking, walking, getting pretty wet. They talked about reality, philosophy and recursive functions and then they walked on. They were the only two people in the world, really. No-one else existed for them, not really. No-one else was really real.

All-consuming self-importance can be fatal. Maybe it won't be this time. Maybe it will.

Does it matter? It's pouring down, no one wants to argue in the rain.

Let's change the subject.

It was late at night, and it was raining.

Two people were talking, walked through the street, and were gone.

The rain kept falling.


End file.
